Everything
by Leximaven
Summary: The war is over; Tom is dead. And Harry... Harry is free. Free to pursue whatever life he wants, even one with a certain blonde Slytherin by his side. But he'll have to win him over first, because Draco is running scared.


**AN: **This oneshot was inspired by the song _Everything _by Lifehouse. You might like to check it out, and maybe listen while you read. It could be atmospheric.

Also – this fic is… In a style of its own, I think. It's certainly like nothing I have read. It kind of irritates me, because they're so _angsty _and _stupid_ – but then I really love some of the lines. So…  
>I call it emo fluff.<p>

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything JK Rowling lays claim to, nor do I own 'Everything' by Lifehouse.

* * *

><p>"Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!" The crowd turns as one, every pair of eyes staring at the spot where the crazy Lovegood girl is pointing; <em>almost<em> every pair.

"Thanks Luna," Harry whispers. "I owe you one."

"I'm your friend, Harry," is all she says. But it's enough.

Quelling the strange urge to peck her cheek, he throws the Invisibility Cloak over himself and in one smooth move turns to face the great double doors, to face freedom—

And he is caught already, before his gaze has even reached its target. The eyes which have captured his own are as cold and immovable as the bars of any steel cage. He shivers: Malfoy.

He must have seen Harry talking to Luna, and not fallen for her distraction; he must have seen the cloak. Strange, how he seems to know that Harry hasn't moved…

"Don't keep him waiting; he's dreamt of this day."

Harry jumps, turning to find Luna nodding seriously at a jar of jam. He opens his mouth to feign innocence and ask who on earth she's talking about – and what does she mean by 'dreams' exactly?

She frowns, turning her whole body to address the seemingly-vacant air he actually occupies. "Nightmares."

Oh.

How could Luna know? As his gaze searches her face for some kind of insight, his eyes become locked with the second pair in as many minutes. Harry's beginning to wonder if he's actually under the Cloak at all, or just wearing a sparkling pink sheet over his head; he feels more conspicuous than he ever has when visible

Luna's eyes, just as pale as Malfoy's, are less intense, more vacant – and more chilling. She seems burdened with a lonely wisdom. And as he feels the twin gazes boring into him, Harry begins to feel as if he isn't wearing anything at all; as if his soul has been laid bare.

Luna's hand comes up to hover millimetres above his cheek. He can feel the warmth radiating from her palm. Her lips curve up in a sad, sad smile.

"Oh Harry," she whispers. "Go!"

He went.

...&...

Harry frowns. He left the hall – _Tempus _– more than twenty minutes ago, and there's still no sign of Malfoy. He'd been so sure he would follow, had felt a certainty deep in his bones. And anyway, hadn't Luna said…?

He _needs_ to see Draco; needs to hear, needs to touch…

It isn't the way his life is meant to turn out, Harry knows that, but despite everything… Despite their past, despite their families, despite their houses; despite their opposing sides in an all-encompassing and bloody war… Despite _everything _either boy stands for, Harry feels drawn to him, now more than ever before.

Since Tom's lifeless shell had fallen at his feet, green eyes had been avoiding the grey that so steadfastly sought them out – avoiding the end to a hopeless tale that had woven itself into his heart, appeasing all protests with sweet promises that could never, can never be kept.

For months now he has tried to ignore the worried churning of his stomach, and the incessant pulling behind his navel, like a portkey that never succeeds in spiriting him away. He wrote them off as fear for his friends, and missing Ginny.

But now, his friends are all either dead or safe; he's spoken to those that are left, and the worry on their account has mostly eased, though the guilt never will. He's touched Ginny, felt her, verified that she is safe, and whole, and breathing. She's devastated, but strong; and most importantly, she is here.

Harry sat with her for a while during the rough feast someone had pulled together. He enjoyed her company, his heart beginning to feel a little lighter, but he couldn't eat; the pulling hadn't gone, and nor had the churning. And those empty grey eyes were always watching, always searching, asking him for answers he couldn't give, for pieces of himself he was scared to lose.

And now he is alone – waiting, expectant – and the tugging and the churning have been joined by butterflies, their delicate gossamer wings fanning the flames of his nerves; and he's almost as conscious of his heartbeat as in that hour before he walked to his death. But now it is a timer set for Life, or if things go wrong, an unending pain, a painful dying.

Harry's ears pick up soft footfalls; his restless pacing stops. At once, the sickening tug behind his navel ceases and is gone; all he needs to do is turn… But Harry feels no relief, for the butterfly wings have become buffeting winds, and the churning a stormy roiling.

His insides in upheaval, and his body momentarily ignoring every command to move, Harry at last manages to turn. He's facing the right way now, but his eyes have betrayed him, screwing themselves shut; they are afraid of what they will find, and afraid of what their sight may bring about: the beginning of the end. He takes one deep and ragged breath, and they open.

Clothing torn and charred, in places bloody; clumped and dirty hair falling to frame an open and vulnerable face; a red, raw gash across one, aristocratic cheek; a purple bruise blossoming on a fair jaw; nose coated in a fine layer of soot and ash; eyes hard as diamonds, and glinting like them too, full of tears Harry wonders if he'll ever shed. Draco Malfoy is a vision.

.

.

.

The yearning to be near may be gone, but Harry still yearns: to hold, to touch; to feel for himself that Draco is really _here_, and not some result of his insanity – his mind's simple incapacity to deal with a world without the beautiful blonde.

In one step, two, three, Harry has reached him; Draco is finally in his arms. But the battle has only begun…

.

.

.

Each holds the other tight, unable to breathe, but at last able to live. Faces are buried in shoulders, scents are breathed deep. The occasional snuffle or sigh escapes from the tightly fused pair, and their grips tighten in response, bringing comfort and confirmation.

As the minutes pass, Harry feels Draco's heat soak into his skin, calming the minor tremors he hadn't even noticed had been racking his frame. The butterflies have returned, but the wild storm in his belly has abated, and his heart noticeably lightens with each shared breath. The road ahead may be hard, and Harry may be terrified, but in this long frozen instant he realises that yes, this is what he wants. This is his life now.

At last they are able to pull away, hands clinging with regret, parting only enough to look into each other's eyes. Harry's hands slip from Draco's waist, sliding up to cup his face and turn it to the mid-morning light of this strange new world. Thumb absently stroking the wounded cheek, literally healing it with each touch, he stares into those frightened eyes and imagines what horrors they must have seen.

But Draco is here. Yes, like everyone else in the war he is damaged – this knowledge rips at Harry's heart more viciously than Ginny's pain had done – but he is still standing.

"You're alive," is all he says. "_We're _alive."

"_Harry…_" The name is a whisper; caress and denial in the same word, same breath.

The Gryffindor's simple statement seems to have prompted some inevitable argument, another battle to be won. But Harry never quits, never backs down, and he won't start now – not with his hard-won future on the line.

He halts Draco's attempted step back.

The Slytherin struggles, but Harry notices there is no strength behind it. Still, he protests:

"You and I can never be a _'we'_. You're the Hero of the Light, Vanquisher of Evil, Boy-Who-Lived-Twice and Slayer of the Dark Lord. Me… I'm the failed assassin, the littlest Death Eater, laughing stock of a fallen Dark side."

Harry just shakes his head. "No. It might seem that way now, with the sides barely starting to break, but things will change; people will change. We won't always be viewed in black and white. Eventually they'll have to realise that I'm no hero, and you…" His smile is sweet. "You've always been my light. You brought me here… If it wasn't for the thought of you, I never would have seen the end of the war."

"**NO!**" The yell cuts through the thick silence and the crumbling stones, echoing off the hillsides and floating away over the lake. A surprised bird takes flight.

"No." And his voice is lower, but his face is fierce, and Harry's stunned mind informs him that he may have struck a nerve. "You can't say things like that. You… you _had _to make it, you had to save them all. We couldn't…" But he seems to pull his mind away, the very thought too frightening to pursue. "You had to save what I would have seen destroyed. I'm a **Dark Wizard **Harry, I was practically born Dark. I could _never _be anything to _you_. I could never… _inspire _such…"

"But you did!" Harry breaks in, earnest and determined; he will never give up, never stop proclaiming it until Draco _sees_. "Draco, you did. The things I went through out there… There was a piece of Voldemort's soul trapped in a locket; we had to wear it every hour of every day, just to keep it safe. You can't imagine what that's like, something so vile wearing you down all the time, whispering poison into your ear and fostering darkness in your heart."

From the look on his face, Harry guesses that a year living with the real thing provided enough basis for understanding. But to watch yourself becoming a monster the likes of Riddle, turning on those you loved and feeling nothing but bitterness and hate… It had to be worse than the helpless months he endured in the Manor. Draco may understand, but he will never fully comprehend.

Harry's next words bring shock to the pale face: "We lost Ron because of it. He was never meant to fight such evil… I almost gave up myself. I was so close to just walking away, or ending it all; it was too hard, too much—"

His tale is cut off as Draco unexpectedly crushes him into an embrace once more, no trace of the usual mask of disdain left on his anguished face. The words are so low, a breath on the wind, that Harry thinks he may have imagined them. "Never say that… Never give in. We can't lose you… _I _can't lose you."

Just as abruptly, Harry is pushed away again, but only to arms length. "I'm sorry, I…" Draco clears his throat and reminds himself that Malfoy's do. Not. Cry. – and that Harry is still here, still breathing. "But you kept going. You didn't give up, didn't do what I was planning that day in the bathroom. I would have done it too, if you hadn't—even with Mother, and… You're strong. I'm not."

Harry's heart is barely beating, its brief, painful squeeze lasting a moment too long. He forces the words out. "_You _are my strength. _You _are the reason I kept walking! You say you've always been a Dark Wizard, but I've always seen you as a beacon. A Malfoy, a Slytherin, godson of Severus Snape, apprentice to the Darkest Wizard in living memory… and a beautiful and gentle soul.

"You're this impossible light shining from the most unlikely of places. If someone in your position can be beautiful and wondrous, then there's something in the world left to fight for, no matter the cost.

"I saved Cedric in the third task, I tried to 'do the right thing', and he died. I tried to save Sirius, and he was murdered. I finally stood up to Voldemort, finally battled him, and… and…"

This time Harry is the one who pulls away, fully leaving the embrace for the first time. He fights tears as their faces float before him: Lupin, Tonks, Fred… more of his family, lost; Snape, who sacrificed his entire life, and ultimately his death, so that Harry could succeed; Colin – Merlin, he was so young… the fifty other faces, some of whom he can't even identify… people he didn't even _know_, and they died just to give him a chance to end it all, a chance to save them…

"It was my fault," he whispers. "They were my _friends_, I should never have let them…"

Draco watches the vulnerable hero turn away, arms aching to reach out for him, to comfort, to hold… But _Harry_ has at last been the one to pull away from _him,_ from them, and he knows he can't let himself get so close again, no matter how much he longs to touch.

But if he did, if he could… he would show the broken boy exactly why he inspires such loyalty, and tell him what would have been if he hadn't stood up to the powerful madman. During his time at the Manor, Draco saw and heard more of Voldemort's plans than Harry's well-meaning Gryffindor mind could imagine. He, better than any _living _member of the Order, knows what the Dark Lord was truly capable of… Yes, he knows what was coming, and that knowledge was almost enough to make even the Slytherin coward take up arms. Draco knows the cost of failure, and the true triumph of success.

But Harry… all Harry ever sees are the casualties of war, the lives he couldn't save, the ones he didn't hold onto tight enough. He's protected from the awful knowledge every Death Eater must live with, but also sheltered from knowing the full extent of the good he has done, the true evil he has thwarted. Seeing the shoulders hunched and shaking with suppressed emotion, the dark head bowed and turned away, Draco reconsiders; maybe – maybe Harry should know.

But before he can do more than take one faltering step forward, the Hero straightens and turns back, eyes fierce and determined behind the shimmering of tears. His voice is steel.

"I couldn't fight for them, Draco, not when it killed them. Not when it put them in danger. But I could fight for beauty in darkness; I could fight to let that light one day be free. I could fight for you."

Suddenly Draco's voice chokes in his throat, any immediate response impossible as this new concept floods his brain. It's too much, too too much to ever believe that _he _could be… could be **anything** to this bright star! Let alone… What's Harry even saying, anyway? That Draco had been his goddammed _purpose_ all along? That _he's_ the reason this whole war has ended? That is – just—

"I – you can't –_Harry_," he all but sobs, an unspoken plea in his voice. A plea for Harry to once again be the selfless hero Draco – everyone – imagined him to be; a plea for his lips to not spill such sweet lies; a plea for his own heart not to believe them; a plea for it to be true, to all be a mistake, to—  
>Draco is terrified.<p>

Harry aches at the fear in his Ice Prince's tone, wanting nothing more than to make it all ok, make whatever is hurting him go away. But he can't, he doesn't know how, and it's killing him to see the crumpled anguish on that beautiful aristocratic face, killing him to be the cause of that confusion and pain. But he has to do something, he can't just watch nobility crumble, and so he reaches out a hand to brush at the smooth, dirt-smudged cheek –

He dies a little more inside, arm frozen outstretched, fingers still containing the trace of what little warmth they had gained before Draco flinched away from his caress.

"Don't _touch_ me," he spits, and Harry thinks that if he could move, could do anything but break, he would be the one to flinch. But he remains frozen.

"Just don't… don't come near me, I–"

Suddenly the blonde is overwhelmed, frantic, torso doubling, hyperventilating , face contorting in horror – freaking the hell out. He bites down, hard, on the knuckles of a clenched fist; but Harry can hear the whimper purely in how forcefully Draco is trying to hold it back. He allows his arm to drop to his side, not sure whether to give the Slytherin privacy and turn away, or rush to him and hold him forever. The decision is soon made redundant, however, as Draco takes one deep, shuddering breath, not calming in the least, but enough to break the cycle. He manages to straighten a little more, but his body is still turned in on itself, his eyes refusing to meet Harry's own when he speaks once more.

"How can…" His voice is thin, coloured with so many tones that Harry is barely able to pick out a few before they are all lost in the white. There is self-disgust in there, and a deep-reaching fear of rejection; and the hope of being proven wrong. "How can you even look at me, Harry? Oh _Merlin_, the things I've done…"

And for a moment that anguished voice cracks; for the first time in this whole sorry confrontation, a single tear is allowed to escape, and it makes a break for freedom through soot and ash. The solitary path through the darkness brings Harry sorrow, and hope.

He does not step forward to wipe that tear away. He can't change the past, can't remove Draco's guilt, so what right does he have to stifle this long-fought release of pain? Let Draco scream, and rave; turn tribal, and primal, as he wails his lament and heartbreak to the heavens and earth. Let mountains shake and crumble with the strength of those cries, and let Draco's heart be barely lightened by it all. Harry will be there.

So he stands, saying nothing; he doesn't fill the blonde's ear with empty reassurances, with meaningless words of comfort. He just watches, forcing Draco to confront his demons, letting him feel – shame for his own weakness; grief for the loss of last innocence; the ever-present power of that vast black-hole created by the deaths he caused and the pain he inflicted, not only leaving him empty but sucking in all that he had been, was, could be, loved, hated, felt…

With every thought that passes through Draco's mind, every memory that tugs at his heart, every foul deed that comes spilling from his lips – Harry never withdraws his presence or his gaze. He will see this through, he will see _Draco_, until the very end – or until the blonde no longer wants him.

At last the confessions shudder to a stop, and Draco is left gulping air and hiccoughing back tears.

Still Harry does nothing. He doesn't walk forward and embrace him; he doesn't turn away in anger.

The silence, and the not knowing, is beginning to drive Draco mad – but still he won't turn, can't bear to see the hero's face… the disappointment, the disgust, the hate; these are all he will see for the rest of his life, however long the Wizarding World and his own conscience allow it to be. He won't turn because he needs this little pocket of time, this last moment where he can retain some illusion of worth through Harry's eyes – before he sees his life and death and eternity on the face of the boy he loves.

Harry hasn't started yelling yet, hasn't punched him, or hexed him, or killed him… The illusion hasn't been shattered, but with each passing moment it stretches and thins, becoming translucent in places, allowing the darkness to seep through. The memories of relief in green eyes, of a warm body pressed against his own, of tight arms, of the smell of home, of a sure "_We're_ alive," and all the other beautiful, tumbling declarations and unspoken hopes – they are all fading, the last bit of light abandoning him to the inevitable future.

As the world grows dark, it seems to shrink around him, closing like a cage. Draco isn't claustrophobic, thank Merlin, but the sensation nevertheless fills him with terror as his body begins to draw in on itself…

.

.

.

From behind him comes a sniff. It is the tiniest little snuffle, but his attention latches onto that sound, the last he expected to hear now his life is ending.

Draco froze.

At this reaction, Harry realizes he must have been heard, and at once abandons all pretence of control. There is movement, and sound, a deep drawn-in breath, a single choked-back sob, a long hitching exhalation.

This isn't the anger he was expecting, and as he hears the ragged breathing, the hiccoughing tears, he almost wishes Harry _had _Stunned him. Surely oblivion would be better than this, listening to the cries of pain, and probably betrayal, that _his actions_ have wrung out of the strong hero.

But if this is to be Draco's punishment, then so be it. He deserves it all and much worse, so the least he can do is face the consequences head-on, and embrace the acute suffering of Harry's tears.

His heart breaks a little more at the sight of the shaking, sobbing boy. His self-loathing, which he was sure must have reached its peak moments ago, at the height of his tale, increases ten-fold. How could he do all of those things? How could he do anything that would bring Harry such pain? He is a beast, and a monster, and he deserves to live forever under the most agonizing of torture.

As Harry's gaze rises to meet his, Draco steels himself to feel exactly that.

But the weeping boy just shrugs helplessly, offering up a self-derisive smile. "How can I stand here with you, and not be moved by you?"

A beat.

The next few moments are a blur of wild-black hair, ragged clothing, tear-stained cheeks, and simultaneous sobbing as they each fling themselves at the other, gasping in relief as their worlds collide.

They had stood apart for less than an hour, yet still this small contact feels like coming home. Air comes in pants and choked gasps as they press their cheeks together, dirt and dust and breath intermingling. Their pulses rush fast with adrenaline, but their thoughts are slow and flowing and gentle; they are one.

.

.

.

Harry's words and heart have won the first round, but after an eternity of silence, and gentle touches, and breathy sighs – after their hearts have slowed their rhythm and found the same beat, Draco's mind begins the second.

His head is resting on Harry's shoulder by this time, the Gryffindor's hands tracing the curve of his spine, while his own explore tender ribs. Whenever his fingers touch sensitive flesh, the hero flinches away; he calms him with a soft kiss to the sweet-scented skin of his exposed neck, and Harry shivers in response. Moments later, the hair at his own temple will be pushed back, Harry bestowing an answering kiss there, and he will allow himself to smile.

The sixth time this happens, he pulls away from the brush of lips, leaning back in the embrace to meet concerned green eyes.

"Draco? What is it?"

His hand reaches up to smooth away the frown, even as his mouth forms the words: "You deserve better."

Harry shakes off the touch, capturing Draco's hand in his own, bringing it absently to his lips before trapping it against his chest.  
>"How can you think that? Voldemort is gone; you're here, with me; we're both <em>alive<em>, we have a future… Tell me, how could it be any better?"

"You could marry the Weaslette, like we all expected you to. Settle down peacefully behind a well-pruned garden hedge and have the requisite 2.5 children. Or if you're marrying a Weasley, have ten." His gaze is watching the fingers of his free hand, picking steadily at a loose thread on Harry's well-worn shirt. He's trying to act casual, hiding his pained expression to disguise the importance of his words. Harry places a finger beneath his chin, nudging Draco's face up to meet his. His eyes are searching and tender, and the Slytherin can feel them drawing out the naked, vulnerable truth. "You could live a normal life."

Harry would have laughed at the notion had Draco's clear gaze not been so sure, so heart-wrenchingly certain. Really, the Wizarding Saviour leading a normal life? That was hardly likely. And yes, maybe it had been all he wanted at some point in time – lazy Sunday mornings in bed, cuddling with Ginny and their kids… Maybe the only thing that kept him going during the long years with the Dursley's was the dream of one day having a _real_ family: a loving wife, children to spoil; someone to call him 'dear', someone to call him 'Daddy'. But—

That was before he knew he could have _this_, could have Draco. Returning to that dream, after finally touching this one – it would be the hardest thing he'd ever have to do. It would be like wilfully locking himself back in the cupboard.

"You're right," Harry says, and watches the pain settle over the Slytherin's features. How naturally it seems to perch there, how comfortably; he would do _anything_ to remove it forever, anything.  
>"I could have the life everyone has chosen for me. I could do what everyone expected of me every day of my life, and cause <em>no<em> fuss. Or I could live the life that _I _want, with you, and be happy." He grasps the Slytherin's arms firmly. "Draco. Stop fighting this."

But he doesn't, he struggles, trying to push away even as his words slice at the intimacy between them. "No… let go of me – stay away! I can't – get off – I'll make your life hell, I swear to Merlin I will!"

That causes Harry to still; the opportunistic Slytherin uses this chance to pull away completely, backing away from the Gryffindor, eyes frantic with fear. Harry doesn't notice the enormous feeling of loss in his arms, the sensation of wrongness there; all his attention is focussed inwardly.

Does Draco… Does he not want this? Has he… Has he misunderstood – everything? "Ok," why does his voice sound so distant? "I'm sorry, I'll… I'll go." What is that strange ringing in his ears?

Harry takes a step, and crumbles – or he would have, had strong arms not suddenly snatched him from the air, pulling him close.

They stayed like that for a while, Draco letting them be whole, Harry focussing on his breathing, focussing on that scent, while the foggy haze in his mind subsided. _Merlin, _it'd been a long day. But it wasn't over yet.

"People will hate us," Draco murmurs at last, breaking the silence.

"You think I care?" the Saviour returns, just as quietly.

"Every day you'll have to be perfect, prove to them that you're right, and—"

The Gryffindor snorted. "Well, that's hardly a problem. I'll have to be perfect with or without you."

"We'll fight!" Draco exclaims, sounding desperate and panicked. "We'll never agree on anything—"

"Yes, and I'll enjoy showing you why I'm right."

"You and I will be nothing but turmoil." And this time Draco's voice is hard and firm – there is no possible way to turn 'nothing but turmoil' into a positive, and he knows it.

Harry doesn't try; but still he doesn't give in. His voice loses its flippant edge, instead becoming soft and sure: "That's where you're wrong.

"Have you ever really looked at your eyes, Draco? They're _so clear_; it's like staring into nothing. And the worse things get, the more angry or scared you become, the more they still. It's like you find strength when everything is crumbling around you, like that's the only time you're sure of yourself, of where you stand. And it calms me. It calms the storms."

Draco is frozen, unable to protest what he knows to be untrue; he can only listen.

"You don't know how much it affects me, seeing that… Knowing that no matter how hard things get, you would still be there – and you wouldn't need protecting. You would stand beside me, and you'd share the weight; you might even take it for a while if I let you. I could just… rest."

Draco's breath escapes him in a sigh, and he unconsciously pulls the other boy closer, longing to give him just that.

"Look at you, even now!" Harry chuckles. "You keep saying we can't be, but here I am in your arms – you're holding me up, for Merlin's sake! You won't even let me fall!"

When Draco hears this, he pulls away, blushing. Harry catches him; "No, don't…"

He raises one hand to the tinted cheek, just _staring_ with this look of fascination fixed upon his face. "You steal my heart," he whispers, and Draco's breath catches.

Harry smirks, "_And _you take my breath away, that too."

Then suddenly he is leaning in, and all Draco can see are those eyes, so clear and green, positively _brimming_ with… with tears, and hope, and love, and he doesn't know what else.

But he's conscious, oh so conscious, of those lips… not smooth and pink like he has dreamed, but dry and cracked, like his own. Oh, and that tongue, darting out to wet them. And the beat of a heart in the chest pressed against him, the _smell _of his boy in front of him – all the while he is _drowning _in those eyes, Merlin, surely there's nothing to rival them.

When Harry is barely a few centimetres away, he stills. The Saviour simply stares for a moment, eyes questioning, begging. His breath wafts across the Slytherin's face, so close he can _taste _it.  
>Lips part, the whisper comes…<p>

"… Let me in?"

.

.

.

And Draco is kissing him, and it's all soft lips, and breathy sighs, and their arms are trapped between them, and it's awkward –  
>Then one of Harry's hands escapes, and comes to cup his neck, then it finds its way into his <em>hair<em>, and his own hands have found Harry's waist, and are tugging him closer… Then feather-light fingers ghost over his cheek, and Draco is _gone._

He moans into the kiss, and lips harden against him, the hand in his hair twisting violently. And the only thoughts running through his head are, "Harry was right. How could it be any better than this?"

Then Draco abandons thought, and time flows as endless eons wheel and pass, but it's all ok because he is kissing Harry Potter.

.

.

.

At last the two must pull apart, breath coming in harsh pants. Their bodies are still intertwined, foreheads resting together.

"Ok," Draco breathes, and Harry is sure his heart skips a beat. He tries not to feel relief, tries not to let himself believe—

"What did you say?" He has to ask, has to be sure…

But then kiss-swollen lips curve into a smile, and there's a definite flutter in his chest now. Because _laughter _has bubbled up from some deep part of the Slytherin, and he can see the light dancing in those cold grey eyes, and feel the sweet breath across his face. Draco's chest pushes against his, the movement so like crying, but his heart rejoices to know the truth.

But wait, the blonde is speaking – Harry reels his senses back in.

"Ok, I give in! How could I hold out when you keep saying those things, and _meaning_ them – how can I not be moved? And then you _taste_" – Harry's breath catches – "Sweet Merlin, I don't know _what_ you taste like, but I want to spend the rest of my life figuring it out."

And the Gryffindor's smile is so big he's worried he'll pull something, and people have died, making this so grossly inappropriate, but nothingwill _ever_ remove this grin from his face. "That's all I ask."

"But – no, I'm not arguing! – It's just, you must know: Weasley will never accept this. And if she's sane, nor will Granger. They're your family."

Harry shook his head. "You're all I need."

Aristocratic eyebrows are lowered as Draco offers him one final chance to reconsider, one last reason to walk away. "You stand to lose everything."

Our young Hero sighs. "Well. They never said Slytherin's were smart." The blonde frowns, confused. "You still can't see it can you?"

"See what? Look Potter—" the soft touch of fingers still his lips, moving, once he is quiet, to trace the angles of his face.

Green eyes boring straight into grey, Harry says it: "Draco… dear heart, _you're _everything."

The Slytherin stops breathing for a moment, then his lips curve into a crooked grin, the first of its kind. He's almost disappointed – it will probably be the last. Because really, how could it be any better than this?

But you and I know Draco will be very pleasantly surprised. It _always _gets better.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>The plot of this oneshot was inspired by the wonderful song, _Everything_, by the most amazing band in the world – Lifehouse. So much love. If you're geeky like that, you might like to read the lyrics and search for parallels – I tried to find inspiration in as much of the song as I could.

I have been writing this for forever! First in a notebook I keep in my bedside drawer, usually late at night when I can't sleep. Then I type it up and correct the horrible abuses of grammar and spelling I've committed in my sleepless haze, as well as adding a lot more detail. Most of the hardcore emotional stuff was added then. I'm happy that it's finished, but a little sad I no longer have a night fic to write.

Actually guys… I'm really nervous about this one. Is it sweet? Or have I just crossed the line into insanity?


End file.
